


In the Dark, There are Eyes

by countessrivers



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Aphrodisiacs, Blindfolds, Collars, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, Handcuffs, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25955614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: The Doctor wakes to find himself somewhere unknown, blindfolded, handcuffed, naked, and about to be auctioned off.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 95





	In the Dark, There are Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> In a very sharp 180 from the cuddle prompts, have some drugged-fuck or die-aliens made them do it-potentially getting sold as (sex) slaves-porn, with a somewhat extensive setup.
> 
> Set in some kind of vague AU where the Master is just kind of out there and around (and stalking the Doctor) and he and the Doctor semi-regularly cross paths.

The first thing that occurs to the Doctor upon regaining the barest semblance of consciousness is that he’s gone blind.

Because he can’t see. He’s awake, his eyes are open, and yet he can’t see a thing, only darkness.

Panic rushes through him, and it takes far longer than it should to identify the feel of a blindfold tied tight over his eyes, blocking out even the tiniest bit of light. The realisation is a relief, as much as it can be, but even that is short-lived, given the number of additional realisations that follow swiftly on from that.

Firstly, he’s lying on what feels like a bed, with his hands tied and trapped under him. Second, there’s someone pressed up against his side with a leg curled over his, the steady puff of their breath on his neck suggesting that they are either asleep or unconscious. Third, he, and his companion, are naked. Fourth, his body doesn’t appear to be shaking off the effects of whatever it was he was drugged with as fast as it should, and fifth, there are multiple other people in the room with them.

He can hear them talking, but their words fade in and out and he struggles to parse any of it. The Doctor isn’t sure if it’s his ears that aren’t working properly, or his brain. Additionally, with the blindfold on he has no way of knowing if his awakening has been noted, or, for that matter, where he is or what’s happening. It’s not hard to play dead though, given how heavy he feels and how much his head is spinning. Moving, for the most part, sounds very unappealing.

The Doctor concentrates on keeping his breathing even and lying as still as he can. Closing his eyes helps. He wasn’t able to see anyway, and it somewhat lessens the spinning. Gradually the voices of those around him start to actually register.

“-are lovely. Just lovely.” A voice, female, and likely belonging to the owner of the hand that proceeds to brush up his leg from his calf to his thigh. The hand feels humanoid, soft skinned, if a little cold. His leg twitches at the touch, but if she thinks anything of it, she doesn’t say.

“Aren’t they just?” Another voice, male this time.

“Oh, they certainly are, but for what you’ve listed for sstarting pricesss, they better be who and what you ssay they are.” A second male speaker, but unlike the first, there’s an audible hiss to this one’s s’ that has the Doctor mentally flipping through his list of known reptilian species.

“While the misrepresentation of merchandise might be common practice amongst lesser establishments, I can assure you, we would engage in nothing of the sort.”

The Doctor’s thoughts catch on the word ‘merchandise’, and in the still lingering fog of sedation, an apprehensive weight settles in his stomach. He feels far too slow, tired, the implication of the words of all three taking their sweet time sinking in.

The woman’s hand is also still touching him, sharp nails now tracing over his hip. He doesn’t particularly like the feeling to begin with, and there’s something behind it that he can’t think of how to name that makes him like it even less.

He suspects that the hissing individual takes that moment to reach out and touch as well, because the body next to him begins to stir, pushing in closer like it’s moving away from something. There’s a considering noise from above them, and a soft laugh from the woman.

The Doctor feels the other curl towards him, their leg shifting higher. He feels a soft cock pressing against his thigh, and lips brushing his shoulder in an open-mouthed sigh. Humanoid too, their touch warmer than the woman’s but cooler than a standard human. It makes zero sense, given the intimacy, but for whatever reason he finds the contact rather more tolerable than the woman’s. Or at least, he doesn’t have as much of an urge to flinch away.

He feels too the moment the other seems to properly wake. Their body stills, stiffens in a way that suggests they are, much like the Doctor had, taking stock of where they are. He’d like to reassure them, whoever they are, given that they’re likely to be as confused and disorientated as he was, not even touching on the larger predicament they seem to be in, but he can’t exactly say so out loud and there’s not much he can do with his hands, which are quite numb at this point, stuck under him. He settles for tapping the other’s foot with his own, hoping the sentiment comes across.

“As it stands, sir,” the second voice continues, sounding closer than before, like he’s moved towards the bed. “Given the rarity of what’s being promised, I completely understand your scepticism. And I want to you be confident, secure in your purchases. Nothing is more important than our customer’s satisfaction. We have the scans and test results to prove they are the real deal, if you would like to see them?”

“No, he’s telling the truth, or at least half of it.” The woman’s hand, which had slowly been trailing up his side, moves to his face, her fingers taking hold of his jaw and tilting his head to the side. “I’m not one to forget such a pretty face. Especially not one who almost single-handedly brought down our entire government. Trust me.” Her fingers tighten, nails digging in as her thumb brushes over his bottom lip. “This is the Doctor.”

It’s subtle, but the body against his flinches, almost certainly at her words, which suggests that his companion knows who he is. More pressing however is the reveal that the woman touching him does too, by name and face. Her statement doesn’t exactly narrow down her identity, but it adds another layer of _bad_ to the situation. He does have a habit of overthrowing governments, but really only when they deserve it, which in turn means that anyone who is put out by that is not someone he wants to be defenceless and alone with.

And her proprietary touch feels all the more skin-crawling, because it’s become very much clear that the three of them are discussing selling him. The talk of bids suggests an auction of some kind, but the Doctor has no clue as to what and who and how and how many and in what capacity. He tries to keep his breathing steady, to not let on that he’s fully awake and something close to cognisant, but it’s an effort. He’s hyper aware of his nudity, his blindness and bound hands, and what he’s fairly sure is a collar around his neck.

Bad, bad, bad.

And there’s also something else too, something very important that the Doctor should know, or realise, or do something about, but for the life of him, he can’t quite grasp it. The lethargy of the drugs used to knock him out and keep him out while they moved him is steadily lifting, but it’s still a struggle to think, to plan.

He’s not panicking, but it’s becoming apparent just how much trouble he’s in, and perhaps more importantly, how very much on his own he is. There’s no one to be looking for him, no one to stage a rescue. No one to even notice he’s gone.

Which is fine, he’s fine. He’s been in bad scrapes and hopeless situations on his own before. He’s been doing it for months now. It’s just that it isn’t often he’s captured for the purpose of being auctioned off like a piece of art. Or worse.

Also, he’s usually wearing clothes. Most of the time at least.

“I ssuposse it would make little ssensse to try and passs off a human or the like as a sssecond Time Lord when you’ve already got the one.”

“As you say. But I am afraid we do have to be moving on. If you could follow me, there are refreshments set up in the viewing room. Now that you’ve seen what you’re bidding on, you’ll have a chance to mingle with the other guests, look over the lots, put your feet up, that sort of thing. And as a reminder we are open to combined bids, as well as customised offers. Really, as long as you’re paying…”

The woman’s laugh is light and melodic and it makes the Doctor’s hair stand on end. He listens to their footsteps as they move in the direction of what he assumes is the door.

“I do recall there being some mention of a show. A demonstration, yes?”

He doesn’t quite hear the reply as he strains to catch as much of their conversation before they’re out of earshot as he can, but it’s only once all three are gone and the door closes and audibly locks that the Doctor fully registers what Hissy said.

_A second Time Lord._

Oh.

Oh, no.

*

He, _they_ , lie there in silence, unmoving for a good while following their, he supposes, potential new owners’ departure. It’s quite obvious they’re gone, and it’s easy to tell that there’s no one else left in the room, but neither of them says anything, likely because neither of them wants to acknowledge anything about their current situation.

“Master?” The Doctor breaks first, certain in his guess, but still half hoping he’s wrong.

There’s a sigh from his left that contains an impressive and nuanced amount of annoyance, indignation, and irritation, along with the standard pleasure expressed whenever he hears the Doctor say his name.

“Doctor,” the Master replies, and though the Doctor was well aware of how close the other Time Lord still was, feeling his breath ghost across his skin, his name spoken so closely, has him shivering. “I take it from your questioning tone that you’re blindfolded too.”

“Yeah.” The Master had started speaking in Gallifreyan, and the Doctor automatically matches him. It makes sense to do so strategically, if they’re being surveilled, as they almost certainly are, but more than that, the Doctor can’t help but savour the opportunity to do so with someone who can actually answer back. “Handcuffed?”

“Yeah.”

The Doctor blames the drugs for not sensing it sooner, along with the utter ridiculousness of the situation. Which doesn’t make it any less ridiculous, or less dangerous for that matter, but he feels he deserves some leeway for not immediately recognising it was the Master. And in his defence, from what he could tell, the Master hadn’t realised it was him either.

Suddenly concerned about lingering effects from the drugs, intentional or otherwise, the Doctor stretches out his senses, both physical and mental. There are a number of other beings close by. By impression, not to mention smell, the Doctor recognises the presence of multiple humans, along with a range of other species, including a Silurian, who was possibly the one who had been in the room with them. He can’t get much more than that, but he’s certain that’s simply because his body’s so temporarily weak, rather than anything more deliberate or permanent.

The Master meanwhile, now that the Doctor is looking, is almost impossible to miss, or to mistake for anyone else. His scent fills his nose, his mind bright and present, both so achingly familiar.

He feels him prodding though, immediately turns prickly, and to punctuate the mental walls he slams up in response, the Master unhooks his leg and rolls away from him.

Or at least he tries to, until he’s brought up short by what the Doctor can only assume is some kind of chain or lead tying their collars together. The Master swears, jerks his head back a few times until it becomes clear that there’s no give. The lead is not long enough to allow both of them to lie on their backs side by side, and given the way they were arranged when they woke up, and the fact that they were, for lack of a better word, being examined at the time, he’s sure the length is deliberate.

“Wait,” the Doctor says. “Let me just…” Using his feet and bound hands as leverage he manages to roll over to his side, shifting onto the front of his shoulder to leave both arms mostly free. He hears, but mostly feels, the Master moving too, and they end up facing each other.

The lead doesn’t allow for much space between them. Their legs brush together, and there’s something unnerving about having the Master’s face so close without being able to see or touch it, but at least they’re no longer lying on top of one another.

The Doctor hisses as blood flows back into his hands and arms, the slightest twitch of a finger sending sharp, needley pain all the way up the limbs. He hears a crack, followed by a sound of satisfaction, and can easily picture the Master rolling his neck out.

“So, slavers, then?”

“Seems like it.” The Doctor tentatively feels around the edges of his handcuffs, searching for the locking mechanism. His hands are in turns numb and in pain, but the sooner he starts trying to get them off, the sooner they can escape.

“We better be expensive.”

“I’d gotten the impression they were asking for a significant sum, yes.”

“Well that’s something at least.” The Master says it in such a genuinely pleased tone that the Doctor has to stop and stare at him.

Well, as much as he can through a blindfold.

“Oh, what is it? I can practically _hear_ your judgemental look.”

“Are you…flattered?

“Are you not?”

“I don’t particularly appreciate being kidnapped drugged and sold to Omega knows who for Omega knows what reason-”

“Come on, Doctor, no need to be coy. A face and arse like yours, there’s really only one reason-”

“- no matter how much they’re charging, and I really can’t imagine why anyone sane would.” The Master laughs as the Doctor continues to talk over him and laughs harder when the Doctor _accidently_ kicks him in the shin while trying to find a more comfortable position. “What about you then? In case it’s slipped your notice, you’re quite literally stuck here with me”

“I never said I was going to stick around. I don’t appreciate being kidnapped any more than you do. I much prefer to be the one doing the abducting. The moment I’m free I’m going to kill everyone, starting with that _lizard_ who groped me earlier, but it’s the principle of the thing, Doctor. It’s nice to be appreciated, is all.”

The Doctor has no clue where to start with any of that, and has for the moment quite given up on getting his handcuffs off, but he’s saved, in a manner of speaking, from having to decide by the sound of the door opening. He and the Master freeze, and it hits the Doctor again exactly how vulnerable he currently is. How vulnerable they both are. He can’t see, can barely move, and he doesn’t even have the most basic coverings on. He’d let the Master distract him from the fact that he wasn’t currently the biggest threat in the vicinity.

“You’re awake. Excellent, excellent.”

Three pair of footsteps enter the room, and the Doctor recognises the voice as belonging to the one seemingly in charge of things. Or at least, working for whoever had taken them.

As the sound of booted feet move around them it’s impossible not to be acutely conscious of precisely how unprotected his back literally is, and for all his taunting, the tension in the Master’s body tells the Doctor he feels the same. It would be pointless, and far too likely to amuse their captors, to turn his head in an attempt to follow the sounds of movement, so he outwardly remains still, relying instead on his hearing to keep track of where they are.

“I assume that was your native language you were speaking earlier?”

Right about being watched then.

“Gallifreyan, yes? A beautiful language to listen to, absolutely lovely.”

The man, who for the most part smells human, seems unconcerned about them plotting an escape, which is more than a little worrying, for all that they technically hadn’t exactly gotten around to that part just yet. An overconfident adversary can be a good thing, but that is often contingent on having at least the rough outline of a plan and some understanding of who one is up against. The Doctor currently has neither.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” The Master’s voice is low and composed and so artificially measured that it has alarm bells ringing in the Doctor’s head from experience-based instinct alone. It’s the tone of voice that ten times out of ten precedes blood, screaming, and more often than not, death.

“I do actually. That is, after all, why you are here.” The man, either foolish or secure enough to disregard the very clear warning, circles around to the Master’s side of the bed, footsteps echoing across the floor. “The Master and the Doctor, the last two Time Lords left in existence. Let me tell you, the trouble we had getting our hands on you both. Time travel makes everything so much harder. Still, worth the effort in the end, I think.”

“If you know who we are, then you know how much of a bad idea this is. This is not going to end well for you.”

“Exactly, given that the moment I’m free I’m going to kill you. You and everyone else here, and if you’re very, _very_ lucky, it will be quick. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for that though.”

The Doctor hears the other two silent occupants of the room shift in reaction to the Master’s threat, although he has no clue if they’re nervous, or preparing to step in. The man, however, just laughs.

The Doctor pulls at his cuffs almost instinctively when the Master flinches, once again leaning towards him and away from who knows what. It’s more than disorientating, not being able to see. It gives his mind far too much space to fill in the blanks.

“Oh, I know a few who would have particular fun with you,” the man says, amusement and something distinctly wanting in his voice.

The Master doesn’t reply, but he holds himself motionless in a way the Doctor knows means he’s either studiously ignoring the man’s touch, not to mention words, or restraining himself from lashing out. Likely both. If he strains his hearing, he could almost swear he hears the rhythmic tapping of fingers.

“Now, bidding will begin shortly, you don’t need to know the details.” The man’s voice switches back to a tone that is far more jovially business-like. “But before that, we’ve decided to provide our guests with a demonstration. Or I guess you could call it a show. Or a preview. All of the above, really. So I’m just going to…”

The Doctor sense the man leaning over the bed, followed by fingers at his throat. He automatically tries to pull away, but all the man does is unclip the lead attached to his collar.

“There, that should give you a little more to work with.”

The man snaps his fingers and there are suddenly two hands rolling him over and holding him down.

“What are you-? What are you doing? Don’t-” He kicks out, but his leg is easily caught, and trying to arch up only earns him a strong hand in the centre of his chest, pressing him into the bed until it hurts.

He feels the Master struggling beside him just as much.

“Don’t you dare. _Don’t you dare. Touch me and I swear-_ ”

“In a few moments you’ll be begging for any of us to touch you, and I will admit, I would very much enjoy doing so. If I were to stay that is, which is unfortunately not allowed.”

There’s the sound of snapping teeth, but as there’s no resulting shout of pain, the Doctor assumes the Master missed.

“It was a little tricky, coming up with something that would work on you without causing any irreparable damage. Time Lord biology is quite unique after all, very complex, and it’s not like there’s many of you around these days for testing. Which, again, is why you’re here to begin with really. Or at least, why you’ll be fetching so high a price. But still, I think we managed it.”

The Doctor’s hearts stop at the soft hiss of an autoinjector being triggered, and he’s so distracted by the way the Master has frozen that he misses the swift tapping of the man’s footsteps around the bed. He only notices he’s moved when a second device is pressed against his neck, and by then it’s far too late to do anything.

The injection itself doesn’t hurt, as per the injector’s design, but the Doctor swears he can feel the drug entering his bloodstream. The sensation finally pushes him past fear and confusion and straight into anger.

“What was that?” he spits out. “What did you just inject us with?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. The drug’s designed to be fast-acting, so it won’t take long.”

The hands holding him down let up, their owners stepping back to leave him tensed, but prostrate on the bed. He can sense the man still standing over him and isn’t entirely surprised when he feels a hand reach down to cup his cheek. The hand is gloved, which the Doctor notes distantly as he decides to take a page from the Master’s book, turning his head so he can sink his teeth into the offending appendage.

He doesn’t make a particular effort to hold on, lets go as soon as the man starts trying to pull his hand back. It was more about making a statement, which he’s confident he has if the genuinely pained howl is anything to go by. It almost makes the backhand worth it.

The crack of the slap is loud, and as the Doctor waits for the ringing in his ears to stop, his unbruised cheek pressed into the sheets, he hears the Master hiss an impressive string of expletives.

A hand fists roughly in his hair and his head is jerked sharply back around.

“Feel free to fight it if you want.” There’s amusement and want once again lacing the man’s words, and the Doctor can feel his breath on his stinging cheek. “The longer you do, the more it will hurt, so it will be entertaining to watch either way.

The Doctor bares his teeth, fingers clenching in the bedding beneath him as the grip on his hair tightens.

“My advice would be to save yourselves the trouble though. Give in. Give yourselves a chance to start getting used to it.”

The man lets go, pushing the Doctor’s head away carelessly, and leaves the room without another word, the sound of the door locking behind him almost unbearably loud.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

The Doctor does. The man really hadn’t been kidding, the drug did work fast.

It doesn’t quite hurt at first. If anything, it feels good. The aches in his arms and shoulders and hands are swept away by a quick flowing current of warmth that races through his veins.

No, not warmth. Warmth implies gentle, gradual, even comforting. This is more like heat. A heat that fills every inch of him as it starts burning hotter.

He’s having trouble breathing, the air in the room and in his lungs is either too thick or too thin, he can’t tell which. He’s not quite panting, but each breath through his nose or through his mouth is both too much and not enough.

His nerves feel alight, every sensation heightened, felt in a way that makes his head spin. From the sheets under him, to the feel of the metal around his wrists and around his throat, to even the faint, steady brush of air across his skin. All of it.

“They gave us a fucking aphrodisiac.” The Master laughs, a considerably unhinged sound that manages to be just as breathless. “Oh, I am going to enjoy burning this place to the ground.”

The word seems too basic to describe what the Doctor is feeling, but the Master’s essentially right. An aphrodisiac. Some drug engineered to induce arousal to an almost overwhelming level. Engineered especially for them apparently.

‘Overwhelming’ _does_ feel like the right word though, because the heat in his blood burns hotter and hotter and hotter until he feels like he’s going to boil. His cock is hard and heavy and aching, and each pump of his hearts is agonising.

The man had said it would hurt, and that they’d enjoy watching it hurt just as much as they would watching them…

No.

No.

He can’t. He _won’t_.

Not- Not like this. Not here. Not…

But now that he’s thought it, he can’t unthink it. Can’t un-picture it, can’t un-want it. It’s impossible to think clearly, to think past the fire. He wants- He wants-

“Please.”

He has no idea he has spoken aloud, or what he’s asking, _begging_ , for until he hears an answering groan.

“Come here. Just- Just, come here.”

The Doctor shivers at the naked desire, the fierce want in the Master’s voice. He imagines in that moment a glass wall, or a two-way mirror, or maybe cameras set up all over the room to capture as many angles as possible. All the eyes on them, watching them, and it doesn’t matter anywhere near as much as it should, as much as the Doctor knows it should.

Nothing else matters, and it ultimately _is_ nothing to do as the Master says. To lift his leg and roll onto his side. To meet the Master as he rolls towards him. To throw his leg over the Master’s hip and pull him closer. Pull them together.

The relief is immediate. The feel of the Master’s skin against his, cool and right and perfect. He moans, the Master swears, and their lips crash together as they lie chest to chest, trying to feel more, to touch more. The Doctor knows they’d be clawing at each other if they could.

Their position is not ideal, even a little awkward, particularly without the use of their hands, and it’s not enough, nowhere near enough, but it’s something. It’s better than nothing. Better than that even, because the Doctor is able to dig the heel of his foot into the back of the Master’s thigh, urge him forward, and the feeling of their cocks sliding together is, in this moment, better than anything he has ever felt.

They’re both leaking copiously, their bodies covered in sweat, so it’s easy to rock against each other, to roll their hips in a constant, steady rhythm that feels nothing but good. The Doctor would be shouting if it wasn’t for the Master’s tongue in his mouth.

He hikes his leg up a little higher, planting his foot on the bed just below the small of the Master’s back. The shift changes the angle of their bodies, leaving his cock rutting against the Master’s stomach, and the Master’s sliding along the crease of his hip. That feels good too. The Master appears to appreciate the move as much as he does, if the low sound in his throat and the way he nips at his lip is any indication. The Doctor allows himself a moment of appreciation for the long limbs and flexibility of his current body.

The Master pulls back, and the Doctor can feel the tickle of hair along his jaw as he ducks his head, dragging his mouth down his neck, chasing the movement of his swallow. There’s a chant of ‘more, more, more’ inside his head, drowning everything else out. The Doctor tilts his head back to give the Master better access, who responds by licking a long line up the length of his throat. He noses back down, inhaling deeply before sinking his teeth into the tender spot between his neck and his shoulder.

He can feel the Master’s grin at the moan he lets loose, feels him worry his teeth just a little before easing off. The Doctor digs his nails into his palms because he can’t dig them into the Master’s skin. The Master bites him again, this time just below his collar bone, and the Doctor thrusts against him harder, faster, as the bright, beautiful sparks of pain shoot through him.

The Master’s mouth keeps moving. Dragging, kissing, biting, up and down his neck, his shoulder, his chest, and the Doctor feels like he’s going to shake apart.

“Master.”

“Say it again,” the Master demands between bites. “Say it again.”

“Master.”

He says it over and over again as the Master leaves his marks, mouthing his name into his skin in return. All the Doctor can see and feel and know is heat and arousal and the Master.

He could almost, for a moment, forget that they were being watched, that they were not here of their own volition, that their captors are intending to sell them to the highest bidder once their show is over.

He can’t quite forget, but even then, it’s not fear or anger that the Doctor feels when he thinks about it, at least not wholly. It’s almost like envy. Envy that these people can see them. That they can see the Master, but the Doctor can’t. It’s an illogical thing to be mad about, the very last thing he should be mad about really, but he can’t help it.

He stretches his mind out again, brushing against their audience, barely grazing the surface, and is immediately caught and dragged under by a torrent of images. He can see them both, through a dozen pairs of eyes. He watches him and the Master move together as it happens, rutting against each other like animals, collars dark around their necks, sweat glistening off their skin. The sight is intercut with disorientating flashes of everything else their voyeurs are imagining doing.

They want to hurt them and use them and fuck them. Bind them and make them bleed. Make them beg. Many know them, some know them both, and the rest at least know _of_ them. More than one is thinking about how much they would have to pay to kill them. Not outright, just to regeneration. It’s apparently not on the table officially, but still, they’re thinking about it.

He and the Master are wanted, coveted for their rareness, their uniqueness as the last of their kind, the last of a race such as the Time Lords, who were admired and extolled and feared in equal measure across all universes. But even more than that, they are thought of as beautiful, and the people that took them, the ones that came and now sit there watching them, want to collect them, own them, use them in any way they see fit.

The Doctor gets caught up in it all, in imagining it. Being bought and kept and put on display even more than he currently is. Being touched and toyed with. The both of them.

He loses track of what is him and what is the audience, any horror or fear he might be feeling drowning beneath their lust and hunger, the onslaught of images, and his own drug-induced need for heat and touch and release.

The Doctor imagines being held on the edge like this, desperate and open and almost mindless, if only to escape the pain. Kept like that for hours, days. _Forever_.

Could they?

The auctioneer, or whoever he was, had said as much, hadn’t he? That this was supposed to be a demonstration, not just of them, but of the drug they’d been injected with.

If they didn’t escape, was that to be their fate? Whoever bought them or hired them or however it was going to work, being given enough of the drug to keep them like that?

Would they even be kept together?

The Doctor doesn’t realise he’s breathlessly chanting ‘no’ over and over until the Master presses their foreheads together. He chokes on the word one last time as everyone else is pushed away, leaving only the Master.

He doesn’t so much let the Master into his head as he does take hold and drag him in. The Master comes, willingly and eagerly, brushing away everything that isn’t him, and the Doctor welcomes him with open arms. The awful, relentless drumming comes with him, but it’s bearable. If anything, it’s the perfect accompaniment to the fire, to the way they’re moving together, building to the crescendo they can both feel coming, syncing to their racing hearts.

From the Master he feels rage and greed and lust, a desperation that mirrors his own. They emotions come in flashes, images and thoughts and impressions that spark and fill him. Entwined through them all is glinting thread of possessiveness, a claim that the Master has made on everything the Doctor is, everything they are together.

_I will kill them_ , the Master tells him. _I will kill them all for their arrogance, their presumption. For daring to take, to touch, to see_ , and the Doctor should tell him no, wants to tell him no, but he can assemble together nothing more than a tangle of pleas and entreaties intercut with the Master’s name.

It’s maddening, not being able to touch, to see, and it distantly occurs to him that’s probably the point. That they were left blindfolded and handcuffed because it made them more desperate. Made for a better show. The Master is inside of him, can see and touch and feel him in a way no other could, and the Doctor can touch him back. But it’s not enough.

He wants more. No, he _needs_ more.

The Doctor tilts his head in order to catch the Master’s mouth, biting his lip in retaliation for earlier before slipping his tongue inside. The Master then tangles his legs around the one he still has stretched out, using the leverage to rock against him faster, his cock hard and hot and slick as it slides and spills over his hip.

He can’t hear anything, the roaring of his blood in his ears drowning everything else out, but he can imagine the sounds they are making. The sounds of their bodies moving against each other, the sounds they let loose as they kiss and pant and share breath. He’s sure it must be obscene.

Everything narrows down to the smell of the Master, the feel of him, and his own burning need to reach his peak, to climax. Their minds are still tangibly linked, and it creates a feedback loop, their pleasure and need urging each other on, pushing them higher and higher and closer to the edge.

He’s burning up, trying to get closer, to get more, his hearts feeling like they’re about to explode out of his chest. It’s too much and not enough and he screams, _wails_ into the Master’s mouth as he comes.

Whether it’s the mental link, or a reaction to the Doctor’s orgasm, or if he was simply there already, the Master comes just moments after, their combined seed splattering their stomachs and thighs. He pulls away, breathing hard and fast, but not before pressing a quick kiss against his lips that feels lewdly chaste in comparison to everything else.

The Doctor shakes, overwhelmed as he comes down, but not spent, not yet, as he can already feel the fire flaring again, his body aching, crying out for more, _more_.

He can’t, he can’t, but yet he wants to, needs it, will _die_ without-

The clink of metal startles him out of his reverie.

“Oh, that’s better.” The Master’s voice is hoarse, ruined, but blatantly pleased.

The Doctor feels him sit up, but before he can ask what he means, there are hands on him, the Master’s hands, pushing at his shoulder to roll him onto his back. Something soft drops onto his chest and the Doctor knows instinctively that it’s the Master’s blindfold. He finds it in him to be impressed that the Master has managed to get the handcuffs off so soon after an orgasm, but even that slips away with the feel of the Master pushing his legs apart and settling between them.

Fingers swipe over his stomach, through the mess they’ve both left there. His mouth is already open when the fingers are brought to his lips, and he wraps his tongue around them when the Master pushes them in, licking up the taste of them.

“Oh, Doctor. If you could see yourself.”

He sucks harder at the fingers in his mouth as he lifts a leg and wraps it around the Master’s waist, urging him down and closer, needing the touch, needing the contact. Needing more and more and more.

**Author's Note:**

> And so they fuck a few more times until the drug properly wears off, and then either the Master busts out and kills everyone while the Doctor recovers and then they escape, or they don't, end up getting sold, and it takes a while until the Master is able to bust out and kill everyone.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here.


End file.
